


The Disintegration of the Patterclan:a Foob parody

by MrToddWilkins (orphan_account)



Category: For Better or For Worse (Comics)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MrToddWilkins
Relationships: April Patterson/teenage edginess, Elly Patterson/herself, Michael Patterson/infantilism, Thérèse Caine/John Patterson





	1. Elly’s Crazy Secret

Years ago. A torrid affair with a young physician, a friend of her husband’s. The inevitable consequence, where the only thing to be happy about was the protective cover of “baby fat” she’d been unable to lose after Elizabeth was born. At six months, a prolonged visit “back home,” giving birth under her maiden name, the quick, furtive signing of papers and walking away, to her old life where everything would go back to normal. You’ll forget, they told her.  
  
But she never did.  
  
Elly reviewed all the steps which had led her here, a non-descript governmental office, waiting for the social worker to arrive. The social worker who held the answers she sought.  
  
She’d been so foolish, letting John’s habit of leaving the seat to “the throne” up, tracking dirt into the house and loading the dishwasher all wrong come between them. Her fling with Ted was the biggest mistake of her life, a mistake which could have cost her everything – thank God for her understanding parents who helped her hide her terrible secret.  
  
She’d sworn to put it behind her, to forget her secret child … but she couldn’t. Not knowing where she was, and if she was being inculcated with the Right Values, all that was Good and Decent – it tore at the cockles of her mother’s heart.  
  
She simply had to find her. Even if it destroyed the life she’d built with John.  
  
“Mrs. Patterson?”  
  
Elly jumped a mile as the young woman walked into the office  
  
“I’m Jana Gryffindor, your caseworker,” she smiled, revealing nice teeth. Elly immediately felt at ease with her. “Shall we talk?”  
  
Elly nodded, unable to speak.  
  
“Now, then,” muttered the caseworker as she flipped through a file. “You contacted us last year, asking for information about the child you relinquished. Normally we couldn’t release that but as it happens, your daughter contacted us right when you did, asking for information and granting permission for us to release her contact information.”  
  
Elly felt her heart quicken, her face growing red. Not, for once, with the ravages of a menopause-induced hot flash, but with the excitement of finally learning the fate of her long-lost love child.  
  
“She sent us a picture of herself to give to you,” said the caseworker, handing over a photograph she’d pulled from the file.  
  
Elly grabbed it, stared at it, initially drinking in the dark hair, the sharp features, the bad teeth …  
  
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, horrified. _Cathleen. I almost failed you._  
  
“It’s strange how these things work sometimes, Mrs. Patterson,” the social worker continued, “As it happens, your daughter now lives in Milborough, your very own town,” she finished, oblivious to the fact that Elly was already very well aware that she was not quite the stranger to her daughter she’d believed herself to be just a moment ago.


	2. Elly and Connie

Milborough. A quiet suburb of the bustling Big Smoke.  
  
Connie Poirier paused at the window of her cozy, cheerful kitchen and admired the beauty of the day. Soft rays of sunlight kissed the flower beds and crept through the windows to suffuse the room with a golden glow. The sky was an expanse of cerulean blue, broken only by the occasional high, fluffy white cloud. Chipmunks and squirrels frolicked and gamboled on the velvety green back lawn. Birds twittered a cheerful symphony. Connie sighed with contentment, and turned to the stove to remove a batch of her famous orange-cranberry muffins whose fragrance perfumed the room.  
  
Suddenly the light dimmed.  
  
“What the hell?” Connie muttered as she rushed back to the window to see what had happened. The sun was gone, covered by thick black thunderheads. The grass and flowers were drained of color, the birds fell silent, the happy chipmunks and squirrels had fled.  
  
Elly Patterson was lumbering up the walk.  
  
“Oh, shit!” swore Connie, knowing Mrs. Pee (as Lawrence sarcastically called her) had seen her through the window. No use hiding in the broom closet pretending not to be home today. Hearing the heavy tread of her next-door neighbor on the porch, Connie steeled herself. What would it be today? The store? John and the dishwasher? The kids? Those damned dogs?  
  
Sighing, she switched on the coffeemaker and went to answer Elly’s knock. Outside, the rain began to vomit forth.  
  
“Oh, Connie, thank God you’re home!” Elly sighed as she walked into the kitchen. “It seems like every time I come over your car is in the driveway but you’re not here.”  
  
“Yes, well …” Connie stuttered, her mind racing for a plausible excuse. Luckily, Elly, as always, was more interested in talking than listening.  
  
“But never mind that, I really need to talk to you,” Elly said, sinking into a chair. “Got any coffee? Oooh, MUFFINS!”  
  
“Just a sec,” Connie said, whisking cups and plates to the table. In short order the two neighbors were seated, each with a hot cup of coffee and muffin.   
  
“Mmmm, your muffins are delicious. Connie,” Elly said, as the rain beat a dismal tattoo on the roof. “But then, rain really ‘whets’ the appetite, doesn’t it? Ha ha!”  
  
Connie’s hand involuntarily tightened on the butter knife she held.  
  
“Anyway,” Elly continued, oblivious to Connie’s white-knuckled grip, “I really need to talk to you. Connie … we’ve been friends for how long?”  
  
Entirely too goddamned long, Connie thought.   
  
“Gosh, must be thirty years now,” Connie said.  
  
Elly nodded. “In all that time we’ve been so close and never kept secrets from each other. But Connie … I’m so ashamed. I’ve been keeping a secret … well, LYING to you for years!”  
  
“Look, Elly … I think I know what it is,” Connie said, mentally rolling her eyes.  
  
“You DO?” Elly gaped at her in amazement.  
  
“Sure, Elly. We all knew you didn’t _really_ exercise six days a week.”  
  
“No!” Elly, cried, shaking her head violently while simultaneously reaching for another muffin. “It’s not THAT! And I do work out at least six days a week. Until recently, that is, I’ve been so busy with the store, I love Moira but if I’m not there at least once a day to see everything’s okay, things aren’t done right, so I haven’t had time … can you pass the butter? Anyway, that isn’t it … it’s … well, I had an affair with Ted McCauley.”  
  
“You did WHAT?!?” Connie gasped.  
  
“Just what I said,” Elly sighed. “Years ago, just after Elizabeth was born, John and I went through a rough patch. The usual thing, you know. He kept loading the dishwasher wrong, plastics on the bottom right next to the heating element, you know and then there was the toilet seat …”  
  
“But what happened?” Connie urged, hoping to hurry this along.  
  
“Well, I felt neglected. I knew I’d gained a little weight with Liz and he just wasn’t seeing me as a woman. The crisis came on the trip to Paris we took, for the International Dentists Convention, do you remember?”  
  
You mean the one where you parked your two wailing kids and filthy dog at my house for a week, Connie thought. “Yep, I remember,” she said.  
  
“Ted was there at the same time, at some physician’s conference. The last night we were there, John and I were supposed to have a romantic dinner alone. But at the last minute he decided to spend the night with the French Model Train Enthusiasts Club!”  
  
“Okay,” Connie said, wondering where this was going.  
  
“It’s a long story, but I ran into Ted and we went to a little bistro together. We spent the night drinking and talking and … well … one thing led to another. Well, I can tell you this much, I will never get ‘plastered’ in Paris again!”  
  
Ted must have been pounding absinthe shooters, Connie chuckled to herself, recalling Ted’s preference for tall leggy blonds as opposed to dumpy housewives. “Gosh, Elly … well, I don’t know what to say but these things happen and it was a long time ago. You shouldn’t …”  
  
“There’s more, Connie,” Elly interrupted her, eyes streaming. “My terrible indiscretion left me with … well, a ‘living reminder.’ Three months after we got back I learned I was pregnant. I knew it couldn’t be John’s because he hadn’t touched me since before Liz was born. It had to be Ted’s.”  
  
“Oh my GOD,” Connie breathed. “What did you do?”  
  
“I hid it. Luckily the ‘baby fat’ from Liz was still there, so I could hide it, and it wasn’t like John ever saw me naked. Toward the end I went to stay with my parents for a while, had the baby and gave her up for adoption.”  
  
“I don’t believe this,” Connie said, struggling to restrain peals of laughter.   
  
“It gets worse,” Elly continued. “I tried to forget about it, but as a Good Mother, I just couldn’t. I had to make sure she turned out Decent, Good and Kind. Like my own kids. So I contacted the adoption agency to see what I could learn. Turns out she’s looking for me too. She sent a picture for me … here it is,” she said, passing the Polaroid to Connie.  
  
Connie took it, gazed at it and let out a small shriek of horror … or was it glee?  
  
“HolyJesusMaryandMotherfuckingJoseph!” Connie shouted. “THIS is your secret daughter!?!”  
  
“Yes,” Elly sobbed. “And now you see why I can’t meet her. Why _she_ can't know who _I_ am. Please, please Connie … promise me you won’t say anything to anybody about this. Swear it!”  
  
“Of course, Elly,” Connie said, arranging her face to a suitably serious look while surreptitiously crossing her fingers and toes. “You’re my best friend … I won’t say a word.”  
  
“Thank God,” Elly sighed, hefting herself up from her chair. “I’d better go. I feel so much better now that I’ve unburdened myself. I’d talk to my dad, who is wise and wonderful but he’d just tell me to let sleeping dogs lie because awake dogs tell the truth. I’m going home to finish the laundry and go through April’s room for contraband. Thanks again, you’re a real pal!”   
  
With that, she departed.  
  
Connie waited until Elly disappeared into her own house. As she reached for the phone, the sky began to clear and the sun warily showed its face again. Connie dialed, and as the birds began to sing once more, said,  
  
“Lawrence? It’s Mom. You are NOT going to BELIEVE what Elly Patterson just told me!”


	3. Snapshots

Mtigwaki. A tiny outpost of civilization in a verdant swath of boreal forest, rich in native culture.  
  
Elizabeth Patterson crouched before a coffee table laden with dainty cups and saucers. Her critical eye immediately noticed a tiny flaw. Reaching across the table, Liz carefully smoothed the corner of a napkin, stood, and surveyed the table with satisfaction.   
  
Everything was perfect.  
  
Tiny sandwiches, lovely little cakes and crackers spread with jam were tastefully arranged on a delicate porcelain platter. Fragrant steam escaped from the teapot. Liz removed her work apron and tied on a lacy, frilly apron in its place. Everything was in order for the party. Pleased with her efforts, she turned to her companion.  
  
“Okay Shiimsa – Mommy’s done!” she caroled to the cat, who struggled mightily against the swaths of duct tape which held her in the frilly dress and cap Liz had carefully selected for the occasion.  
  
The cat meowed pitifully.  
  
“Ready, sweetheart?” Liz crooned. “It’s Tea Party Tuesday!”  
  
The offices of Portrait Magazine. The most prestigious magazine in all of Canada. And small parts of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.  
  
Michael Patterson sat in his cubicle, appearing to work but in reality, keeping an eye on Mr. Boyle, sales supervisor. As soon as Boyle left the room, Mike reached for his desk nameplate. A quick flick of the wrist and the nameplate was turned around. M. Patterson, Sales Representative was no more. Michael Patterson, Senior Editor was now in da’ cube!  
  
“Patterson!” Mr. Boyle bellowed from behind him.  
  
“Y...yes sir?” Mike whipped around to face his angry boss, voice and chin quavering.   
  
“Goddamnit, how many times do I have to tell you we don’t pay you to pretend to be an editor! You’re paid to sell magazine subscriptions! Got that?!?”  
  
“Yes sir,” Mike whispered, crushed.  
  
“Give me that goddamned nameplate!”  
  
Wordlessly, Mike handed it over.  
  
“Now get your sorry ass back to work! We’ve got a new shift supervisor coming in today, and I don’t want Mr. Melville Kelpfroth to see what a bunch of pansy-assed editor wannabes we have working in sales, got it!?!”  
  
Mike nodded automatically in response, though his thoughts raced through his skull like a pack of rabid squirrels.  
  
Oh God. There couldn’t be two people with that same, misfortunate name!  
  
Melville Kelpfroth. His new shift supervisor. And his new downstairs neighbor. Who, just this very morning, he had informed that he, Michael Patterson, was a senior editor at a Prestigious Magazine and therefore didn’t have to take any of his, Mr. Kelpfroth’s, shit.  
  
Oh, dear, sweet Jesus, Mike thought despairingly even as the pungent odor of cigar smoke began to fill the cube farm …  
  
Milborough Junior High. The girl’s bathroom.  
  
April Patterson sat alone in a stall, a small package in her lap.   
  
It had been another horrible day. Gerald refused to swap gum with her, preferring instead to swap spit with April’s erstwhile best friend and now roadside gig, Becky. Duncan told her that her ass looked a mile wide.   
  
Thanks to the overalls Mom made me wear instead of the stylish minidress I picked out, April thought bitterly.  
  
And these were her friends! The rest of the day had been the usual round of wedgies, face-in-the-water-fountain, stolen lunch, and head-slammed-in-the-locker misery that made up April’s typical school day.  
  
Worst of all, Mr. Bergan had told her, gently but firmly, that the guitar was not for her. Nor, for that matter, should she attempt under any circumstances to play _any_ musical instrument. Not even a kazoo. She could practice for another fourteen years but she’d still be just as untalented as she was now. That the praise and encouragement of her delusional mother and deaf grandfather meant nothing, she was no musician and never would be. He was telling her this for her own good.  
  
But it cut her soul to the quick.  
  
April fumbled with the package in her lap, fingers trembling. At last, a razor blade, its shiny surface glowing with molten promise, fell free. Snatching it up, April drew the sharp edge along the surface of her thigh. As tiny drops of blood welled to the surface, April felt the tension leave her body.  
  
“Ahhhh …” she sighed.  
  
The Patterson kitchen. The heart of the homestead, decorated in a cozy, country-kitchen style, yet strangely empty.  
  
Elly Patterson sat at the table, the day’s fourteenth cup of tea in one trembling hand, the photo of her long-lost daughter in the other. She gazed with a mixture of longing and disgust at the image of her newly discovered offspring.   
  
She couldn’t help but make comparisons.  
  
Michael, a family man, good provider, talented writer and Senior Editor! Liz, bravely independent and educating disadvantaged young native minds, far from home! April, pretty, popular, a natural leader and musical prodigy! All three of them, Good, Honest, Kind, Decent and above all, _Normal_young people, all made so solely through her careful, loving, thoughtful mothering style.  
  
But not this secret child. Oh no, she was different. A bad seed, if ever there was one.  
  
A bad seed which she must never, ever permit to bloom in the Patterson family garden.


	4. Behind closed doors

Deanna Patterson. Devoted daughter. Cherished daughter-in-law. Loving wife. Mother of two adorable moppets.

_Prostitute_.

Deanna tiptoed to the door of her children’s room. Softly opening the door, she peeped inside. All was well. The children were blissfully napping in cough-syrup induced slumber, breathing peacefully in their crayon-colored room. Quietly, she turned and headed towards her bedroom to prepare for her 1:30 PM “appointment.”

As she shucked off her large, wooly bathrobe, revealing a cheap negligee, Deanna sadly contemplated the steps that had led her here. She’d been desperate. Michael was a Senior Editor at a Prestigious Magazine, yet they were chronically short of cash. She couldn’t understand why he stayed there. Not only was he bringing home a sales rep’s salary, they continually mixed him up with Mike Futterman, whose name always seemed to appear where Michael’s byline should be. She yearned to nag him into getting another job, as her beloved mother-in-law Elly suggested.

Yet, she hesitated.

Michael still didn’t know she’d been fired from her last job. And lost her license. It happened a week before she was to go on maternity leave. It was the single most humiliating event of her life, hauled into the boss’s office, accused of giving bad advice about how to switch between birth control pills, summarily fired, then being brought up on charges of malpractice. The hearing was just a month after Robin was born. She’d been stripped of her license and given a huge “fine.”

The fine was what drove her to it.

She’d gone to Ardith’s house that afternoon and sobbed out the whole, sad story. Ardith listened sympathetically, although in hindsight, Deanna understood the sly gleam in her eye when Deanna declared she’d do anything to get the money just as long as Michael never, ever learned what had happened. Before she knew what was happening, she was one of Ardith’s “girls.” God, how she’d dreaded her first “date.” But, the other girls had been right, once you got past your first trick, it was easy.

The money was very good, even after Ardith’s “cut.” Within a month the fine had been paid in full, and Deanna fully expected she’d be able to give up “the life.” Yet they were always so broke, always unable to budget for little “luxuries” like weather stripping and lemon zesters. Before she knew it, she was firmly established in the “business” and had a regular stable of clients, entertaining them on her very own marital bed every Monday through Friday, 1 PM till 4:30 PM. Thank God Michael thought the bolt had been “lost” in the move!

The heavy tread of a man’s feet in the hall, a quick furtive knock at the door brought Deanna back to the here and now. Sighing resignedly, she got up to answer it, thinking, as she opened the door, that she’d make baked chicken and boiled carrots for dinner tonight. It was Mike’s favorite meal.

Downstairs. The Kelpfroth apartment.

Winnie Kelpfroth lay on the couch, nursing yet another migraine. As long as she was perfectly still, as long as it was perfectly quiet, the pain would subside. Just as she felt the worst of the pain begin to fade, loud, rhythmic thumping resounded from overhead and a huge bolt of agony shot through her head.

“Goddamnit!” Winnie shrieked as she catapulted off the couch, grabbed a broomstick and returned the favor.

Toronto. High Park.

Michael Patterson sat alone on a bench, scorned even by the hungry black-furred squirrels. The burning humiliation of the last hour still boiled within his slender chest. It was worse than he could ever have imagined.

“Patterson!” bellowed Mr. Boyle. “Meet Mel Kelpfroth, our new shift supervisor. He’ll be your boss now that I’ve been promoted.”

Blushing from the top of his head to his very toes, Michael turned slowly to face the music. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen, but Mr. Kelpfroth’s reaction surprised him. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there for a moment, cigar in hand. Then, a huge grin split his broad face in two as he held out his hand to Mike.

“Oh, we’ve met before!” Mel laughed, grasping Mike’s hand and wringing it painfully. Then the two men had walked on.

Mike sighed with relief, thinking he’d dodged a bullet. Perhaps Mr. Kelpfroth was a decent fellow after all. Perhaps he’d say nothing, maybe just give Mike a little good-natured ribbing later, at home. Yes, that had to be it, he was sure. It was like his Mom always said; most people are good, except when they aren’t. His certainty and relief lasted right up until noon, when he noticed Mel Kelpfroth sitting in the lunchroom. With the entire editorial staff. 

Ten pairs of eyes were glued to Mr. Kelpfroth’s face as he gesticulated broadly, punctuating his remarks by stabbing the air with his cigar. Snatches of conversation reached Mike’s ears, even across the room.

“… didn’t have to take my shit because …”

“… he said he was a WHAT?”

“… a senior editor at THIS magazine?”

“No, REALLY?”

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Lena Schmertz laughed so hard diet coke shot out her nose. Debbie Costas sat shaking, tears of mirth streaking her cheeks. Mike Futterman literally fell off his chair and rolled on the floor, clutching his stomach and gasping for breath. Like wildfire, the brutal cacophony of hysterical laughter spread throughout the lunchroom.

Mike fled.

He sat in the park, contemplating his next move. He was done at Portrait Magazine, that much was for sure. But what now? Deanna had informed him just the other day she’d let her pharmacy license lapse and was going to be a “stay-at-home mom.” They’d somehow managed to make it on one salary for some time, how, he didn’t know – budgeting was women’s work – but what would he do now?

It hit him. He could make the lie the truth!

Why not? He’d tell Dee he was sick of Futterman stealing his byline, and artistic integrity forced him to quit in protest. She’d be thrilled to have him around the house for a couple weeks, helping with the kids. He could do this, he could pull it off. After all, everyone believed he was a Senior Editor, why not go out and get a position as an Actual Senior Editor? He knew just where to apply. A truly Prestigious Magazine, one commensurate with his considerable writing prowess. A perfect match for his unusually gifted writing style. Yes, by God, he’d do it. He’d show those bastards at Portrait Magazine!

He’d show them _all._

He reached into his man-bag and pulled out the notebook he always kept with him, on the off chance the muse should appear. He nibbled thoughtfully at the end of his pen for a moment, then sat up straight, squared his shoulders and began to write with a purpose.

Dear Mr. Graydon Carter my name is Mike Patterson I am applying for the position of Senior Edditor at Vanity Fair Magazine I have been working at Portrait Magazine in Toronto you probably have heard of it but them time has come for me to strike out on my own I read you magazine every month in the checkout line and seems to me you guys need my help I have a degree in journalism and am including samples of my published work they are “Beat the Back to School Blues!” “Don’t Dread Dorm Life!” which both appeared in my college’s newspaper I know your based in NYC but if its okay I’ll work from home here in Toronto also I can’t travel too much like to Afghanistan or anywhere like that because my wife won’t let me and my mom will think its dangerous but still there’s lots going on in Canada I can write about and probably also some stuff in Michigan and maybe upstate NY also okay so let me know when I can start salary is negotiable but probably like $50,000 US must be what the other editors get there so that’s okay with me anyway let me know. Love, Mike Patterson.

Mike looked up from his missive and smiled. Closing his eyes, he pictured the bright future he was sure lay just within his grasp. He’d be rich, famous. He’d be able to provide for his family. Deanna would be so happy!

And most of all … Mom would be _so_ proud.


	5. A quiet afternoon

Milborough. The Patterson living room.

Edgar and Dixie slumbered on the rug, huddled together for warmth against the perpetual chill which pervaded the house, regardless of the season. Butterscotch, the rabbit, lay sleeping in her cage, tightly curled in a ball. Suddenly, Edgar and Dixie awoke, lifted their heads, noses quivering. Finding the scent they dreaded, they scrambled to their feet and ran pell-mell to hide under the dining-room table. Butterscotch whimpered, and burrowed deep into her hay bedding.

The Bad Lady was coming.

Elly Patterson drove at a consistent 4 kilometres/hour down Sharon Park Drive, determinedly ignoring the honking, shouts, and rude gestures emanating from the long line of cars behind her.

“People today just don’t appreciate the importance of road safety,” she muttered to herself as she pulled her brand-new Pavo into the driveway. Stepping out of the car, she noted with displeasure that John had yet again failed to coil the garden hose properly. The end of the hose dangled limply, when it should have been pulled neatly through the last coil. Sighing, she shrugged her ample shoulders and walked towards the porch. But what was this?

An envelope, lying on the bottom step. 

Elly grimaced with annoyance for the second time in twenty seconds. Well, well, well, the mailman was taking things easily again, it seemed. She made a mental note to call the post office and complain. She bent with difficulty and picked up the envelope. One glance at the exterior was enough to tell her that the mailman had not improperly placed mail on the porch instead of neatly in the mailbox as she required. The envelope was addressed to her, true, but her name was spelled with letters cut from a magazine.

Her hands shook as she tore open the envelope and read the contents.

Dear Elly you turnip nosed old bitch. I know all about your secret daughter. If you don’t want the rest of the world to find out then it will cost you $20,000. Leave the money in unmarked bills in a brown paper bag in the old hollow tree in the park at 11 PM next Friday. If you don’t pay up I’ll tell. If you go to the police I’ll still tell. Remember that, you punning, pontificating, arm-flapping bag of wind.

“Oh, dear God!” Elly moaned as she let the letter fall, fluttering to the ground. “I’m being … BLACKMAILED,” she sobbed. “Where in the world will I ever find $20,000?”

The Retirement Home. The apartment of Jim and Iris Richards.

Jim snored fitfully on the couch, as Iris watched him thoughtfully. Jim certainly seemed to be slowing down. During their courtship Jim had been as spry and active as a man half his age. Yet ever since their marriage his health had taken a slow but steady turn for the worse – his eyesight deteriorated, his gait was unsteady, he was always cold, suffered from unexplained rashes, digestive troubles and recently, steady aches and pains in his hands and feet. A perplexing constellation of symptoms.

The very same symptoms her last six husbands had suffered right before they died.

Except they all kicked a lot quicker, Iris thought to herself grimly. Fred, Harold, Alan, Morford, Percy and Theodore only lived about four or five months after the wedding rice had been thrown, their wills had been changed and they began eating Iris’s hearty, home-cooked meals on a daily basis. But Jim was another story. That sonofabitch had been clinging to life for nearly two years despite ingesting enough arsenic to euthanize an entire pod of blue whales.

George, her first husband, had died of natural causes back in 1999. Cancer. Iris grieved terribly for the first few weeks until the life insurance cheque had arrived. It wasn’t much, just enough to pay off the cost of George’s funeral and settle some old bills with a bit left over to treat herself to a few little luxuries.

Like the nickel slots at the local casino.

Before she knew it, Iris had pissed away not only the life insurance money but her entire life savings. She’d had to sell the house, and even then things were still desperate. Faced with surviving on nothing but a tiny pension, she’d married Fred. It didn’t take long for her to realize she’d made a terrible mistake. A mistake she’d quickly corrected with a few doses of rat poison. Thank God George was an inveterate horder, she thought. You couldn’t buy arsenic-based rat poison any more, but the old fert had squirreled away an entire case of the stuff. She’d found it when cleaning out the basement and nearly threw it away, but at the last minute, decided to hang on to it.

Best decision she’d ever made.

It was amazing how easy it was, Iris reflected. Elderly, widowed men were ripe for the picking, unused to being alone and taking care of their own damned selves for once, eager to remarry and have a woman around to do their laundry and cooking for them. Promise to iron their shirts and they’d break their hips running to change their wills so their new bride would be “taken care of,” Iris chuckled to herself. And no one thought anything of it when the old bastards died a few months later. In fact, family and friends alike thought it was wonderful that they’d had those last few months of happiness with dear, sweet, kind and loving Iris.

Dear, sweet, kind and loving Iris Reid Phelps Archer Marks Peters Jackson Alford Richards sighed with irritation as she contemplated the sleeping and still-breathing form of her eighth husband. Like the others he’d changed his will right after they’d married, leaving most of the cash to her and a few small bequests to his children and grandchildren. She didn’t mind that at all, so long as they got a little something, family members tended not to be suspicious when the old bastards finally croaked. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that Jim was still alive, she thought, trying to look on the bright side. She could work on convincing him not to leave April his 1932 Supertone Round Up guitar, signed by Gene Autry. She’d looked it up on eBay and it was worth at least five hundred bucks.

Milborough. The bus stop.

John Patterson hunched deeper into his coat as drops of rain pelted him mercilessly. His glasses fogged and water dripped from the brim of his rain hat, adding to his misery. Dimly, he wished he still had a car. But Elly wanted the Pavo and they only way they could afford it was to trade in the Bushwhacker. Anxious – as always – to avoid a fight, he gave in. Most days he didn’t mind taking the bus. The only time it really bothered him was on errand days when …

Oh, God. He’d forgotten.

He was supposed to pick up Elly’s dry cleaning at Chang’s Laundry and he was also supposed to pick up a quart of milk at Mr. Singh’s corner shop. Both closed at five. It was now 4:26. The bus would arrive at 4:30. At 4:38 he could get off at the Pillsbury Road stop, and run the seven blocks to Chang’s. But there was no way he could pick up the laundry, run the seven blocks back to the bus stop, get on the bus and still be on time to get to Mr. Singh’s corner shop before it closed!

He felt his bowels loosen with fear.

Paralyzed, he stood on the corner, trying not to cry. A cold sweat broke out over his entire body. What to _do_? The dry cleaning? The milk? Which should he get? Which option was least likely to bring Elly’s thunderous wrath to bear on him? He stood there, visibly shaking, lost in a panicked fog. A fog so dense and scary he didn’t even notice the car pulling up next to him, or the window rolling down to reveal a young woman with dark hair, and sharp features. It wasn’t until she spoke to him that the fog began to break.

“Allo, Mister Patterson,” the young woman said in a lilting, Quebecois accent. “May I offer you a lift?”


	6. Life goes on.......

Milborough. The Patterson kitchen.  
  
Elly glared at the clock for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was nearly seven and John still wasn’t home. Whatever could be keeping him? He knew full well that he was expected home by five thirty – at the latest – and dinner was always served at exactly six-thirty sharp. Goodness knows, between her secret daughter and the blackmail she didn’t need a thoughtless husband to give her more grey hairs!  
  
The barbequed chicken was done to a tender turn, the moist and fluffy couscous was warming on the stove, the carrots were boiled and the fruit was prepared for dessert. But where was John? Sighing with irritation, she turned from the window and contemplated her youngest daughter, slumped at the table.  
  
“April,” Elly barked. “Sit up straight for heaven’s sakes!”  
  
“Sorry, Mom,” April whispered, raising her head from the table.  
  
“That’s better. How was school today?”  
  
Instead of the bright stream of chatter about classes, Becky an’ Gerald an’ Duncan that Elly expected, April instead bit her lip, tears springing to her eyes. Before Elly knew what was happening, April began violently slapping her face and head, shoved her chair back and ran sobbing from the kitchen.  
  
“Hmmph,” Elly remarked to the empty kitchen. “Must be hormones. At that age their bodies are changing and they get all discom’boob’ulated!”  
  
The front door slammed. Finally!  
  
“Hello, dear,” Elly addressed her husband, lips puckering for their traditional welcome-home peck.  
  
“Oh, hey,” he said absentmindedly, brushing past and throwing himself in his chair, leaving her standing there, lips pursed. She waited a few seconds.  
  
Nothing.  
  
“JOHN!!!” she shrieked.  
  
“Yeah?” he replied, staring off into space with the strangest look on his face.  
  
Goodness, he looks flushed, Elly thought to herself. His face and neck are all red! I wonder if he’s sick. I bet he’s starting a cold.  
  
“You didn’t kiss me hello,” she grumbled. “And you’re late!”  
  
“Oh, sorry,” he said, rising and kissing her quickly on the cheek. “I was detained at the clinic. Everett ran into some trouble with a MODVI and I had to help him out.”  
  
No lips? She wondered to herself, and then decided it must be that he didn’t want her to catch his incipient cold. It was so nice of him to help his young assistant with his work, too. He was such a thoughtful man, even if he kept leaving that darned “seat” up!  
  
“Well, call next time,” she said, determined to ignore his lapse. “Dinner’s ready. It’s your favorite – chicken and couscous. And there’s fruit for dessert!” She thundered over to the stove and began lifting lids.  
  
“Great,” he said, still not looking at her, his mind elsewhere. Specifically, his mind was still at the LampLighter Inn, $25 an hour with a small deposit for sheets and towels, where he’d spent the single most pleasurable hour of his entire life with that wildcat, Therese.  
  
He still couldn’t believe it was real.  
  
One moment he was in Therese’s car, talking about his grandchildren. Then suddenly, Therese was pulling into the parking lot of the LampLighter. At first he didn’t know what was happening.  
  
“Why did you pull over?” he’d asked. “Is something wrong with the car?”  
  
She laughed in response, a silky, kittenish purr of a laugh.  
  
“Oh, Mister Patterson”, she’d murmured, running one manicured fingernail along his thigh. “Haven’t you guessed by now, how I feel about you?”  
  
The next thing he knew, they were ensconced in room 404, tearing at each other’s clothes like animals.  
  
He never knew it could be like that. And he’d never, ever expected that a gorgeous – albeit a trifle sharp-featured – young woman like Therese could be attracted to him. He’d asked her about it as they lay there bathed in the afterglow, sharing a cigarette.  
  
“Why me, Therese?” he said. “You’re married to Anthony. You have a baby daughter. And I’m old enough to be your father.”  
  
She’d sighed deeply, rolled on her back and stared at the ceiling.  
  
“I know,” she said. “You are older than me, it’s true. But, John, I never had a father. I was raised by a single mother. You see,” she whispered, nuzzling his ear. “My real mother, she gave me up for adoption right after I was born. A nice lady, she adopted me but it was not the same as having two parents. I always wanted a father.”  
  
“But, Anthony,” he reminded her. “And Francoise.”  
  
“Yah,” she replied. “Anthony. I only married him because with that moustache,he seemed older. I thought, perhaps it will be enough. But, it wasn’t. As for my daughter, well, a big mistake. I hate children.”  
  
Her words sent a tremor of excitement through him. Why hadn’t he realized it before now?  
  
“So do I,” he murmured huskily, reaching for her and …  
  
“JOHN!”  
  
Elly’s shriek penetrated the erotic fog of his thoughts, dragging him back to the here and now.  
  
“Y...yes dear?” he stammered.  
  
“I asked you if you picked up my dry cleaning!”  
  
Toronto. Mike an’ Dee’s place.  
  
Mike and Dee sat at opposite ends of their kitchen table, the children in high chairs on either side. Merrie sat slumped, a toddler fork held loosely in one hand, her food untouched. Robin’s eyes were half open, his mouth slack as his head wobbled back and forth.  
  
“Gosh, Dee,” Mike said. “Lately it seems like the kids are really groggy every night. Do you think they’re sick?”  
  
“They had a long nap today,” Dee replied calmly, spearing a boiled carrot with her fork. “How was your day, Michael?”  
  
“Well,” he beamed. “I have some bad news and I have some good news …”  
  
Milborough. The retirement home.  
  
Jim Richards painfully walkered his way across the living room into the eating nook. It’s like the old saying goes, he grumbled to himself as he lowered himself carefully into a chair. Aging ain’t for the faint of heart!  
  
Damn, but his hands and feet ached.  
  
“Dinner’s ready, darling,” Iris cooed, setting a big bowl of homemade beef stew in front of him.  
  
He wasn’t really hungry, Jim thought, but he couldn’t bear to hurt Iris’s feelings. Dear, sweet Iris, she was a blessing sent from his late wife Marian in heaven to brighten his last years. Taking up his napkin, he gazed lovingly at his second wife. She worked so hard to take care of him. “Aren’t you going to have some, honey?” he asked, taking his first spoonful.  
  
“I’ve already had my dinner, dear” she smiled. “Now eat it all up!”  
  
Across town. The Garden Centre.  
  
Lawrence Poirier sat at his desk, poring over the books, waiting for Nick to come back with their take-out dinner. It seemed like they spent all their time at the business these days, but it was certainly worth it. They’d expanded a lot in the last years, taking on twenty new employees, twenty-one if you counted that fruitcake Liz Patterson. His finely-drawn features, a perfect amalgam of his Brazilian and French-Canadian heritage, tightened as he considered the elder Patterson daughter.  
  
Bad hair. And those _shoes_.  
  
Pattersons as temporary summer help aside, the business was doing very well. So well, they were bidding on an adjacent piece of land. It was Nick’s dream to own that lot, to fill it with gorgeous topiary and herbs. But the cash flow was a bit tight. They’d have to float a short-term loan to buy it. Lawrence sighed, remembering the discussion he and Nick had had about it.  
  
“Baby,” Nick had sighed, tearing up spinach and tarragon leaves for salad. “I’d simply love to buy that hot piece of real estate but be real. No bank’s going to give us that loan right now, we’re too over extended. Where’s the goat cheese, precious?”  
  
“Here,” Lawrence said, handing it to him. “Look, sweetie, we don’t have to go to a bank. I’ll get a private loan. You know the Pattersons helped Gordon buy the gas station, and I’m sure they’ll do the same for me. After all, I’m one of Mike’s two friends.”  
  
Frowning, Lawrence recalled how Nick had squealed, clapped his hands and danced around the kitchen at the news. Confidently, Lawrence had made the supreme sacrifice of taking Elly Patterson for coffee the next day, explained the situation and laid out his plans for repayment.  
  
To his amazement, she’d refused to consider it.  
  
“No, Lawrence,” she’d said, slurping a skim-milk latte and eating a butter-laden muffin. “I’m afraid we can’t help you. I don’t think you should expand the garden centre at all. It’s just so cute and quaint the way you and your handsome life partner, Nick have it set up now,” she glanced around, wondering if anyone had heard her say that she had gay friends.  
  
She hoped so.  
  
“But, but Mrs. Patterson,” Lawrence stuttered. He couldn’t believe that fucking bitch was actually turning him down on aesthetic grounds! “It’s Nick’s dream to own that land and make it beautiful. You see, back when he was a kid it was the place where schoolyard bullies would chase him and beat him up. He wants to erase all those bad memories by creating something beautiful there.”  
  
“Nope, sorry Lawrence,” she said, licking a stray bit of butter from her napkin. “I think you should keep the Garden Centre small. And you need more hanging baskets. Can I order another muffin?”  
  
“But you helped Gordon buy his gas station!” he spluttered with rage.  
  
“That’s different,” she smirked, raising her hand to signal the waitress. “Gas stations aren’t quaint and pretty, the way bookstores and Garden Centres are. More hanging baskets, Lawrence, that’s what you need. Oh, and maybe paint the exterior mauve. Or something like that, you know, the way your people have an eye for color and all.”  
  
Even now, his hands itched to grab her by that wattled neck and choke her.  
  
Ah, well, Lawrence thought, shutting the ledger. He’d come home, and told Nick some details needed to be worked out, avoiding the subject for days, wondering how he was ever going to tell Nick that his topiary and herb garden was going to remain a dream.  
  
And then he’d received a well-timed phone call from his mom.  
  
A car door slammed. Lawrence looked up, and through the glass doors saw Nick prancing up the drive, bearing cardboard boxes from Tony’s Pizzeria. Smiling, Lawrence opened his top desk drawer, and slipped the ledger inside.


	7. Morning moods

Milborough. Sharon Park Drive.

Elly Patterson lay in bed, exhausted after a sleepless night. While she had always stressed the importance of a good night’s sleep to her family she found herself unable to follow her own sage advice. She’d spent the entire night fretting, about the blackmail money. Wherever would she come up with $20,000? She’d tossed and turned all night, considering various options and rejecting them until finally, she’d hit upon a perfect solution.

It was foolproof.

Sighing, she heaved herself out of bed, heedless of the sleeping form of her husband, scratched her ass and made her way downstairs to start breakfast. As the coffee perked and the bread toasted, she went over her plan carefully. It was risky, to be sure, but the risk paled in comparison to the shame which would be hers should her family, Milborough and the world learn her horrible secret. 

It’s like the old saying goes, she thought to herself. Sometimes desperate situations means you have to take desperate measures that ain’t for the faint of heart! Smiling at her own wit, she began to set the table.

Upstairs, April Patterson stood in her room, gloomily contemplating her reflection in her full-length mirror. She looked like such a _foob_ in the overalls and checked shirt her mom had laid out for her that morning. Ever since the “minidress incident” of last year, mom had picked out all her clothes. Her butt looked a mile wide! And her hair! It was so … so _ugly_. Not just her hair. _She_ was ugly! She cast a longing glance at her backpack. The razors were hidden in the small zippered compartment in front. Sighing, she turned from the mirror and through the open bedroom door, saw her dad walking down the hall.

“Daddy?” April called.

“What?” he answered absentmindedly.

“Daddy?” April inquired wistfully. “Do you think … do you think I’m_ pretty_?”

“Nope,” John replied, and headed for the stairs, whistling cheerfully.

Elly turned from the stove as John strolled into the kitchen. 

“Good morning, dear,” she said pleasantly. To her astonishment, he not only failed to answer her promptly, he walked over to the counter, opened her purse and removed her car keys!

“What … what are you _doing_?” she squeaked indignantly.

“Taking the keys to my car,” he answered, calmly removing them from her “#1 Mom!” key ring.

“But … but … but the Pavo is _my_ car!” she spluttered.

His steely gaze pinned her against the stove.

“Not any more, bitch,” he replied in an icy tone. “I paid for it; I’m driving the goddamned thing.” Pocketing the keys, he began to walk out the back door.

“But … how will _I_ get around?” she shrieked at his retreating form.

Turning, he observed the lumpy form of his wife for a brief moment. A smile creased his face as he fished something from his wallet, and threw it at her.

“Take my bus pass,” he grinned as he exited, slamming the door behind him.

Toronto. Mike an’ Dee’s place.

Deanna Patterson sat at the kitchen table, swamped with despair as she observed her newly-unemployed husband enjoy a “hearty” breakfast as their toddler daughter played, out of sight, in the hallway and their infant son slept in his crib in the bedroom. Deanna’s thoughts raced like crazed chipmunks as Mike sat munching his toast and expounding on the great future that lay ahead of them, just as soon as Graydon Carter sent him the offer letter for the Senior Editor position at Vanity Fair Magazine. 

What was she going to do?

It was 8 AM. Her first “customer” would arrive in five and a half hours. She hadn’t been able to get in touch with Ardith, who was the only one who held the contact information for all the “clients.” There was no way for her to cancel that afternoon’s “appointments” on her own, and even if she could, Ardith would still expect her “commission,” just as she had the afternoon Merrie fell down the stairs while Dee was occupied with her 2 PM “caller.” She’d had to take Merrie to the doctor, losing the rest of the afternoon’s work.

That’s when she’d begun using the cough syrup.

Still, she couldn’t exactly use the “cough-syrup technique” on Michael, nor could she expect to entertain strange gentlemen in their bedroom all afternoon without Mike noticing! He was far too intelligent for that. His brains and talent were what she’d fallen in love with, though she was the first to admit his longish hair and gamine features certainly didn’t hurt!

“Dee,” said Mike, his voice cutting into her thoughts. “Shouldn’t you check on Merrie and make sure she’s not playing near the stairs? Oh, and could you get me some more coffee?”

“Of course, honey,” she answered, filling his cup before going to round up her daughter.

She went into the hallway, her mind still preoccupied with how she’d continue her “business” without Michael knowing. Merrie wasn’t in the hallway. Groaning, Deanna headed for the stairs, finally locating Merrie all the way at the bottom, playing with the umbrella stand. Scooping her daughter up, Deanna paused for a moment, looking around. The foyer was enormous, by far the largest room in the house. It was so large, in fact, that Lovey could fit a huge mirrored “hutch” at one end and an old couch at the other.

A very large old couch. Easily large enough for two people.

Milborough. Lilliput’s Bookstore.

Beatrice Alfarero bustled around the office, preparing the deposit slip for the midday bank run. Tucking it inside the deposit bag, she grabbed her purse and headed out. As she walked through the store, her sharp eye surveyed the various displays. All was well. It was certainly worth coming it at five AM to get them ready, and she wasn’t in the least perturbed at the knowledge that she’d have to stay until nine AM to get the inventory done.

It was worth it.

Beatrice prided herself on her strong work ethic. It was, she knew, the thing that had set her apart from the other 113 applicants for the coveted position at Lilliput’s. The competition had been fierce, but Beatrice was a scrappy, plucky young woman, and her winning attitude had gotten her the job. Widowed, with two small children to feed, life had been tough but had taught her how to survive. Now thanks to her wonderful, generous, kind, wise and perfect boss, Elly, she could at least put food on the table for her kids.

She owed Elly _everything_.

Smiling as she contemplated her mentor, Beatrice went through the back door to the alleyway where her car was parked. She fumbled with her keys, and then gasped as she felt a hand close around her throat and a pointed object press against her back.

“Hand over the money,” a voice whispered in her ear.

“Okay,” Beatrice trembled, holding up the small canvas bag. Elly had always stressed to her and Moira that in the event of a robbery, they should hand over the money. “Please … don’t hurt me … I have two kids … I’m all they have!” she sobbed as her attacker pushed her against her car.

“Stay there till the count of one hundred. Don’t look around. If you do, I’ll be back!” the voice menaced. Beatrice closed her eyes and began to count, slowly. As she did, she heard footsteps clumping down the alley, out to the main street where cars and buses rumbled by. 

Mtigwaki. A verdant land, rich in natural beauty and native heritage.

Liz Patterson walked proudly down the one and only street, pushing the baby carriage she’d purchased in Spruce Narrows just the other day. She smiled graciously at onlookers, proud of their obvious admiration for her beautiful little girl. Clad in a frilly dress, bonnet and the cutest little booties, Baby Shiimsa certainly did her mama proud.

The duct tape _was_ a little distracting, though.

“Hello, Gary, Viv!” she sang out as she passed her employer and his wife, standing open-mouthed on the sidewalk as they watched Mtigwaki’s newest teacher sashay down the street, her bundle of joy meowing plaintively. Shaking his head, Gary turned to his wife.

“Seems like every year we lose a young, idealistic teacher this way,” he sighed. Viv nodded sympathetically.

Milborough. The #31 bus.

Elly Patterson grimaced as the bus bounced over the potholed road. Aside from exacerbating her painful hemorrhoids, it made her flab jiggle in a way the smooth-handling Pavo never did. She made a mental note to write a letter of complaint to the town council about the shocking state of Milborough’s roads. Well, thank goodness the buses ran frequently, at least, she thought to herself as she opened her large mom-bag and surveyed the contents.


	8. In which crime doesn’t pay

Milborough. Lilliput’s Bookstore.

Sergeant Paddy O’Gallagher pulled at the collar which encircled his beefy neck, rubbed his reddened, vein-y nose, took a swig from his hip flask and surveyed the scene before him. The young robbery victim sobbing, and older woman patting her on the shoulder.

“Well, now, ladies,” he boomed. “Sure and you can be telling me what the suspect looked like!”

The young woman bravely choked back a sob, wiped her eyes, and said, “I didn’t get a look at him … it all happened so fast!”

Wimmin! Paddy groaned to himself. Probably thinkin’ about dresses or shoes! The squawking of his radio broke off his reverie. “If you’ll be excusing me, ladies, I’ll be taking this call,” he bellowed, walking to the front of the store.

Beatrice broke into a round of fresh sobs. “Oh, Moira,” she gulped, “how could I have let this happen? Elly will be so disappointed in me!”

Screw the old bag, Moira thought grimly. “Now, now,” she said soothingly. “Elly won’t be angry at all. You know she’s always told us to comply in the event of a robbery.”

“But … but she needs the money so badly,” Beatrice whispered, in real distress. “She and John must be just scraping by. Every time I see her she talks about how she wants to retire but they can’t afford it!”

“Beatrice, are you out of your fucking _mind_?” Moira shouted, finally pushed past the point where she could censor herself. “Wake the fuck up! If she needed the money she’d be here making it! Elly spends about three hours a week at her own business and even then all she does is drink skim-milk lattes, eat doughnuts and criticize the displays!”

“How can you say that, Moira!” Beatrice replied indignantly. “Elly is a wonderful person! She’s our employer!”

The booming voice of Paddy O’Gallagher interrupted what promised to be a heated argument. “Sorry, ladies, I’ll be having to take your report later. There’s just been a robbery at Mr. Singh’s corner store! I’m on my way there now – top of the mornin’ to ye!”

“Oh my!” Beatrice gasped. “That’s right by Elly’s house! I hope she’s okay!”

Toronto. Mike an’ Dee’s place.

Mike sat in his stuffy attic, hard at work on his latest think-piece. Sure, he had quite the portfolio of published work, what with “Beat the Back to School Blues” and all, but a magazine like Vanity Fair would probably want new work to publish straight off. He’d sent a follow-up email just that morning to Graydon Carter, reminding him about the Senior Editor position, included a draft of his latest project, and expected to receive his employment contract very soon. He gazed with concentration at his monitor, grateful for the quiet which enveloped him like a nest of soft, fluffy, three-ply toilet paper …

That’s a great metaphor, he though to himself, scribbling it down. Anyway, the quiet was a blessing. Dee had put the kids down for a nap hours ago, after giving them some “grape juice.” Dee herself was quiet as a mouse, probably cleaning or sewing or knitting or something like that. He stood, stretched, and paused for a moment to gaze out the tiny attic window. He could see their landlady coming up the walk.

Probably here to give those Kelpfroths what for, he thought with smug satisfaction. Winnie Kelpfroth had called about fifty times in the last hour, complaining about noise in the foyer, of all places. Finally, he’d told her to go to h-e-double-hockeysticks and switched off the attic extension.

Downstairs. The front porch.

Lovey Salzman paused on the porch, catching her breath. “Damn that meshuggeneh Kelpfroth bitch,” she muttered to herself. “Always kvetching and kvelling about something! Noise in the flopriftickes foyer my tuchis!” Fully prepared to rip her newest and most troublesome tenant a new one, Lovey inserted the key in the lock, and swung the door wide.

“OY VEY!” Lovey shrieked, staggering backwards, clutching her heart.

“Lovey,” Deanna faltered, snatching up her big wooly robe as her “gentleman caller” fled, throwing a twenty at Dee as he departed. “It’s not what it looks like! I can explain!”

“OY SCHMUTZIGES WHORENDE GEFILTEFISCHES FAHRFEGNUEGENE GELFLOORFTE MATZOHBREI SHIKSA!” Lovey cried, as the Kelpfroth’s door opened a crack and a pair of beady eyes stared out. “It looks like a man who was not your husband was playing hide the schlong in your pupik! You’re running a whorehouse in MY apartment building!”

“Please, Lovey!” Deanna wailed. “Please don’t tell Mike! I’m begging you!”

Upset as she was, Lovey took a moment to assess the situation.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Bei mir is the mouth shut.”

“Thank you,” Deanna whispered gratefully. 

Lovey smiled beatifically at the young woman. “And your rent just went up.”

Milborough. The Patterson living room.

Elly sat on the couch, counting her loot as the dogs watched her warily from under the coffee table and the rabbit sat frozen in her cage.

Her take was disappointing, to say the least.

There was the nine hundred dollars and sixty-seven cents in deposits she’d stolen from her own store. Pathetic, she grumbled to herself, making a mental note to take Moira and Beatrice to task for the poor profits her store was making. She’d fared better at Mr. Singh’s – nearly two thousand dollars from the till alone, not to mention whatever was in that fundraising can for a local toddler with a brain tumor she’d swiped from the counter as she ran out the door. Grunting, she reached into her mom-bag to retrieve the can she hoped would tip her grand total over three thousand. Then there would be just $17,000 more to find before tomorrow night. Frowning, she hunted through her bag for the can. Where the heck was that darned thing?

The doorbell rang.

Abandoning her search for the recalcitrant can, Elly heaved herself off the sofa, stuffed the evidence under a throw pillow, and went to answer the door. It was probably Connie, she thought, coming over to invite her to coffee. She hasn’t done that for years, Elly thought, as she hurried down the hall. Smiling, she opened the door.

And gasped with horror.

Kortney Krelbutz stood on the porch. 

“Hi there, Elly,” she sneered. “I saw you running out of Mr. Singh’s. Just before he came out shouting that he’d been robbed. I think you dropped this,” she finished, proffering a large, heavy can decorated with the picture of a cherubic little girl whose head was swathed in bandages, and emblazoned with the words “Pennies for Patricia!”

Elly stood, speechless for once, gaping at the dark-haired young woman who grinned evilly in return.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Kortney smirked.

New York. Corporate offices of Vanity Fair Magazine.

Graydon Carter sat at his desk, reading the email his assistant had just forwarded him.

**To:** Graydon

**From:** Cheri

**Subject:** Another gut-popper! FWD: Okay so heres another one for you have you sent the contract yet not that theres a hurry but I haven’t gotte

Graydon,

Can you believe this jackass?

Cheri

PS Should I tell Chris Hitchens he’s out of a job or what? LOL!!!

\-----------------------------------

Dear Mr Carter can I call you Graydon,

Mike Patterson here just checking in I sent uyo a letter maybe you haven’t got it yet but I bet you will so anyway I know Vannity Fair has high journalistioc standatds and all so I figue you need more than just those two pieces I sent you because you will want to publish something right away and i think my college newspaper actually owns the rights to those two I sent so rather than waste times trying to get them to give ouy thoe rights we can just use this one i’m workingon right now that way you can put it in the july issue or maybe the august one if the july one is all done already its about my neighbours downstairs the kelpforths i wrote it for the Clarion first but that one was totally different it was pretty funny my wife said but this one is definitely way better and its not really the same piece so no touble with rights and all that legal jumbo-mumbo okay talk to you soon, Love, Mike Patterson.

PS remember this’s just a draft

GOOD FOYERS MAKE GOOD NEIGHBORS (okay you can spell neighbours the american way if you want i don’t mind)

BY

MICHAEL PPATERSON

IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT …

Graydon Carter choked on his coffee, spraying his flat-panel with a fine mist of Colombian roast, tears of mirth running down his cheeks.


	9. Things get crazy

Milborough. The LampLighter Inn.  
  
John lay back on the rented bed, exhausted. He’d never made it in to work at all, choosing instead to spend the day in an erotic haze of contentment with Therese – or as he was now calling her, ‘Theri.”  
  
What a difference twenty-four hours makes, he thought to himself as he listened to Theri singing away in the shower. She had a light, sweet soprano, totally different, he thought with a grin, than the caterwauling squawk Elly emitted every morning whilst showering. An unbidden mental image of his wife soaping her doughy physique flashed through his mind.  
  
A wave of nausea swept through him.  
  
Fighting his rising gorge, John considered his options. His relationship with Theri might or might not survive, but either way, his marriage to that awful woman was over. Nor did he harbor any illusions about the three children she’d spawned. Mike was an illiterate moron, Liz was unnaturally attached to her cat, and there was definitely something wrong with April, aside from her tone-deafness.  
  
He couldn’t wait to see the back of them.  
  
However, he didn’t intend to give any of them a penny. Why the hell should he, he thought grimly. For the last twenty-five years Elly had sucked him dry, and not in the good way. Starting from the day they’d met, lasting all the way until yesterday afternoon, she’d taken every last bit of light, happiness, and hope and tried her best to emasculate him. No, she wasn’t getting one thin dime from him, and he knew just the person to advise him on how to go about that. Reaching for his cell, he flipped it open and scrolled down the list of names and numbers till he reached the number he wanted.  
  
Ted MacCauley’s.  
  
Milborough. Lilliput’s Bookstore.  
  
Beatrice and Moira leaned glumly against the counter, watching motes of dust dance in the fading afternoon light. The store was empty, as usual, and quiet, except for the occasional strains of German drinking songs that drifted over from Klaus Gruebbelhoeffer’s Biergarten next door. Every so often a jolly, lederhosen-clad patron would drift by Lilliput’s main window, obscuring the view of the pizzeria across the street where Tony Testosteroni, a genial Italian who spoke with a heavy accent, expertly flipped pizza.  
  
In his sauce-stained white undershirt.  
  
“Oh, Moira,” Beatrice sighed, breaking the silence. “I just know Elly’s angry. She sounded so upset on the phone when she called to say she was coming in to talk to us.”  
  
“Beatrice, calm down,” Moira replied impatiently. “Elly won’t be angry with you, the one sane company policy that woman has is the comply-with-robbers policy.”  
  
“Moira!” Beatrice exclaimed, genuinely shocked. “How can you say Elly’s policies are crazy?”  
  
“Beatrice, have you ever before worked in a place where employees were fined for not greeting each other with a hug every morning and had to wear a hat that said ‘Beware of the Grouch!’ if they were in a bad mood?”  
  
“Well,” Beatrice said slowly. “When I was with Up with People we had to …”  
  
“Never mind,” Moira cut her off.  
  
“Anyway,” Beatrice sighed. “I just know Elly regrets hiring me. I bet she wishes she’d hired that nice, quiet, polite Korean girl instead.”  
  
Moira opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by the sight of her boss clumping her way across the street from the bus stop.  
  
“I wonder if the Pavo’s in the shop,” Moira whispered to Beatrice, just as Elly came through the door.  
  
“Hi Elly,” Moira said. “Nice of you to stop by.”  
  
“This isn’t a social call, Moira,” Elly gasped, exhausted by the walk.  
  
You hag, Moira thought. “I know, Elly,” she said earnestly. “Beatrice here said you sounded upset with her on the phone. I told her that was silly, since the robbery wasn’t her fault and she did just what you’ve always told us to do.”  
  
“Well, Moira,” Elly said slowly, avoiding Beatrice’s eyes. “I’m afraid that isn’t quite true. Yes, the insurance will cover the loss – and by the way, I am quite upset with you both for the lousy profits we’ve been making – but there’s more to this than money.”  
  
She finally looked at Beatrice. The young woman bravely met Elly’s eyes, valiantly holding back the tears that formed in response to her beloved mentor’s obvious displeasure.  
  
“Beatrice,” Elly began. “Lilliput’s isn’t just a business. It’s a way of life. The entire population of Milborough depends on us to provide them with top-quality crafts, art supplies, and of course, the latest Harry Potter books and displays.”  
  
Jesus, she’s delusional, Moira groaned to herself. Beatrice, on the other hand, merely nodded sadly.  
  
“Now,” Elly continued, “I expect everyone who works here to give 110 percent at all times. Would you say that someone who let a robber take Lilliput’s money was giving 110 percent, Beatrice?”  
  
“No,” the young woman replied, hanging her had.  
  
“I didn’t think so,” Elly finished triumphantly. “So, because of your careless mistake, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go, Beatrice. Please leave immediately.”  
  
Beatrice stood still for a moment, then reached behind the counter and got her purse. Shakily, she made her way to the door, paused, and turned to face Elly and a gaping Moira.  
  
“Elly,” Beatrice said in a quivering voice. “I just want you to know I’m so sorry. I’m going to pay you back every penny that was stolen. I’ll empty out my kids’ college fund. My daughter doesn’t need that asthma medicine, a few hours in the bathroom with the shower running works almost as well. It might take me years, but I promise, I will pay you back!”  
  
“Of course you will, Beatrice,” Elly responded. “And because I don’t believe in holding grudges, I won’t even charge you interest.”  
  
“Thank you Elly,” Beatrice whispered gratefully. Her eyes swept over the store lovingly for one last time, and she left, leaving Elly and Moira alone in the store.  
  
Minutes passed.  
  
“You goddamned douchebag,” Moira finally said.   
  
“What?” Elly inquired, amazed.  
  
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Moira asked. “How the hell could you fire Beatrice for something that wasn’t her fault? For following your own fucking policy?”  
  
“Moira! Language!” Elly admonished her. “That’s fifty cents for the curse jar!”  
  
“You’d better explain this, bitch,” Moira hissed. “I want to know what the fuck you thought you were doing by firing the best employee we’ve ever had, and expecting her to pay you back when she can barely feed her kids. And just who the fuck you think we’re going to get to replace her on those coolie wages you pay.”  
  
“Now, Moira,” Elly said firmly. “If Beatrice let herself be robbed, she’s hardly the best employee we’ve ever had. And what kind of boss would I be if I let her mistake slide like that? By paying me back she’ll learn not to do the same thing again. As for her replacement … I already have one.”  
  
“And who the hell would that be?” Moira demanded.  
  
“You!” Elly smiled.  
  
“You cannot seriously expect me to do Beatrice’s job and my own and think that we’ll make any money, crazy lady!” Moira shouted. “We only get twenty people in here on our best days and even then I practically have to offer them oral stimulation to get them to buy a magazine! How am I going to do that if I’m in the office placing the orders, out back sorting inventory and on the floor arranging displays AND working the register AT THE SAME TIME?”  
  
“You won’t,” Elly replied calmly. “I meant you’re Beatrice’s replacement. Don’t think you’re getting off scot-free; you should have inspired Beatrice to be a better employee. So, I’ve decided to punish you by demoting you. I’ve already hired your replacement … oh, here she is,” she chirped brightly as the bells on the door tinkled ominously.  
  
“Hi there, Moira!” sneered Lilliput’s new store manager.  
  
“Kortney … Kortney Krelbutz!” Moira stammered, as the room began to whirl crazily around her.  
  
Toronto. Mike an’ Dee’s place.  
  
“Mmmm, boiled carrots!” Mike grinned, knife and fork in hand, as Dee served him his dinner. “My favorite! A man sure works up an appetite when he’s been writing all day!”  
  
“Any word from Vanity Fair yet?” Dee inquired, cinching the belt of her wooly bathrobe more securely.   
  
“Nope,” Mike replied, reaching over and pushing Merrie’s head up from the table. “Gosh, Dee, the kids sure are sleepy. Are you sure it’s good for them to nap so much?”  
  
“Oh, they’re fine,” Dee replied vaguely. “Mike …”  
  
“Yes, dear?”  
  
“I’ve been thinking … maybe I should go back to work while we’re waiting for your offer letter.”  
  
“But Dee, we’ll be rolling in money once I start working at Vanity Fair!” Mike protested. “And you know how I feel about moms staying at home.”  
  
“I know,” Dee sighed. “I feel the same way. But, we need the money now. And it would only be part time.”  
  
“You found a part-time pharmacist position?” Mike asked. “I thought you let your license lapse.”  
  
“I did,” Dee replied softly. Then, in a stronger tone of voice, “It’s not a pharmacist position. I’d be working for Lovey. I was talking to her this afternoon. She owns a rooming house on Yonge Street, did you know that? Anyway, she needs someone to manage it part time. In the afternoons, from 1:00-4:30. I’d get paid, and I figure since the kids sleep all afternoon, maybe you could …”  
  
“Say no more, Dee,” Mike announced. “I’ll watch them. Graydon will let me work from home, I’m sure. Heck, I’ll be a “mister mom” and watch two sleeping children for four hours!” he proclaimed magnanimously. “Sure, most guys wouldn’t do that, but you know me, I’m a trailblazer!”  
  
“You sure are, honey,” Dee replied mistily. Gosh, what a wonderful “man” she’d married!


	10. Things fall apart

Milborough. A pretentious chain coffee-shop.

Elly Patterson sipped her skim-milk latte, took a healthy bite of her butter-laden corn muffin, and sighed with contentment. 

It was all working out.

Never in a million years would she have imagined that Kortney Krelbutz would be the one to come to her rescue. It just proved what she’d told that silly Moira all along – Kortney wasn’t bad, just a little misguided. Elly frowned, recalling how she’d simply rolled over and done nothing when Moira fired Kortney for forging cheques.

Kortney’s talent for cheque forgery sure came in handy!

Elly smiled as Kortney approached the table.

“Okay, Elly, it’s all set,” Kortney said, sitting down. “I’ve been to the bank. I’ve got the cash right here,” she said, patting her purse. “Oh, and I got you another muffin. Extra butter.”

“Thank you, dear,” Elly said, tucking her napkin more securely into her collar. What a blessing Kortney turned out to be. That little show-down at her house had sure cleared the air. Yes, Kortney tearfully confessed to stealing from Lilliput’s, but only to support the forty-seven children she was sponsoring through the “Save the Children” fund! She’d even promised to find their pictures and monthly letters to her and give them to Elly as proof, but Elly told her not to bother, she believed her. Damn that Moira, Elly fumed. Thanks to her, forty-seven children had gone without shoes or clean water for months! Her trust in the girl restored, Elly had confessed her dilemma to Kortney, who immediately promised to help her raise the remaining blackmail money. She was truly a good girl, Elly thought wistfully.

She just wished _Kortney_ were her secret daughter.

At any rate, Kortney was back in her rightful place at Lilliput’s and everything was falling into place. Moira, of course, had stormed out of the store immediately after she regained consciousness, telling Elly to shove her job and the store right up her … well, “nether regions” right next to Kortney’s head. At first Elly had been a little apprehensive, wondering how her busy store would survive with a single employee, but Kortney assured her it was a good thing.

“After all, Elly,” Kortney told her. “If Moira were here, she’d just get in the way. You know she hates me, and she’d be looking over my shoulder the whole time. It’s much easier this way.”

Kortney proved a fair prophet, for in just four hours, six cheques and a couple of extra zeroes, the remaining $17,000 had been raised and Elly could pay off the blackmailer.

“Phew!” Elly exhaled forcefully, blowing muffin crumbs all over the table. “I sure am relieved, Kortney! Now, I just have to drop it off at the designated spot in the park tonight and my secret will be safe forever!”

“You know, Elly,” Kortney whispered, arranging an expression of sweet concern on her face. “I’ve been thinking. You probably shouldn’t be the one to drop the money off. The park can be dangerous after dark, for one. There’s lots of kid who hang out there to smoke cigarettes and—“

“Don’t I know it!” Elly interrupted. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve called the police and written letters to the editor of the Milborough Gazette about those cigarette-smoking hoodlums!”

“Right,” Kortney replied, craftily concealing her annoyance at yet another Elly Patterson dumbass tangential remark. “Anyway, besides those cigarette-smoking hoodlums, you don’t want anyone seeing you there. They might suspect something’s up.”

“You’re right, Kortney,” Elly fretted. “But how will I get the money to the park?”

“Well,” Kortney answered. “It’s dangerous. But you’ve been so good to me … I’ll drop it off for you.”

Elly’s round face lit up. “Oh, Kortney … would you _really_ do that for me?”

“Of course!” Kortney replied with a grin. “It’s the least I can do!”

Milborough. The retirement home.

Jim Richards stood on the small balcony, observing the hustle and bustle on the street, eight stories below. Iris stood just inside the open sliding glass doors, glumly observing the bent and shaky form of her eighth husband.

That fucker just _refused_ to die.

Two years of systematic arsenic poisoning and Jim was _still_ alive. Iris had used her last remaining bottle of rat poison in his breakfast oatmeal that morning, and there he was, still alive. Obviously heavy-metal poisoning wasn’t going to work. Enough was enough. Two years was long enough to waste on one meal ticket. Plus, a wealthy widower (or, as Iris thought of him, ‘husband number nine’) had just moved in on the third floor. She’d have to move in on him fast, before Ethyl Schwartz or Gladys Johnson snagged him.

“Time for plan B,” Iris sighed, backing up a few steps. She closed her eyes, said a quick prayer and charged forward. Two seconds later, her outstretched hands connected with Jim’s back.

She’d forgotten how bent over he was.

Her hands hit him wrong. Instead of knocking him over the rail, he was pushed to the ground. Her momentum propelling her forward, Iris tripped over his prone body, flipped over the railing and fell screaming to the street.

“Iris!” Jim screamed, trying to raise himself up. “Oh no! Help! Help!” he shouted as a crowd gathered below. “I didn’t mean to make her fall!” He staggered to his feet. “Iris! Honey! I can’t live without you!” he sobbed as he tottered to the railing and peered over. An intense wave of vertigo swept through him as his horror-filled eyes took in the pancaked form of Iris, splattered on the sidewalk. Dizzily, he closed his eyes, reached for the rail to steady himself, missed, and just as Iris had not two minutes before, flipped over the railing to join his dear love in the next world.

Mtigwaki. The Council Lodge.

Gary Crane sat proudly in full native dress. As chief, he’d called the village elders together to discuss the fate of Mtigwaki’s latest mestis teacher and mental case, Elizabeth Patterson.

“Pass the council pipe,” he commanded in his native language. Baloney Macleod handed him an intricately carved pipe, its contents emitting a fragrant smoke.

Gary inhaled deeply.

Mmmm. Mtigwaki Gold. Nothing like it, he thought. It gave you a pleasant buzz that lasted for hours. Their secret Native Wisdom Gathered through Centuries of Living Close to the Land and the cool northern climate culminated in a short growing period and slow drying process that couldn’t be beat, producing a plant with few seeds and a high THC content, and a leaf which produced a nice, mellow smoke. 

It was their biggest cash crop.....”So what do we do with Liz?”, asked Marc Snowbear.

Gary smiled. “Only thing we can do. She goes back to Milborough on the #22 bus with a pension and our thanks. Maybe she’ll find some lonely white guy to be with. Maybe she won’t. Either way,she’s not our problem anymore. Jesse’ll feel unhappy,but he’s got Katie Wilkes,who’s only _one _year older than he is. So that clears it all up.”

Everyone nodded at that,and thus the latest Council bull session ended.

Toronto. Mike an’ Dee’s place.

Mike Patterson waited glumly by the mailbox, waiting for the mailman to arrive. Supremely confident in his future as a Senior Editor at Vanity Fair though he was, he couldn’t imagine what the hold up was.

Where _was_ his offer letter?

He’d spent all day yesterday, last night, and all that morning emailing, faxing, and calling Vanity Fair’s corporate office, asking to speak to Graydon Carter and inquiring as to when he’d be getting that offer letter. Heck, it had been three whole days since he’d informed them he was free to work for them! Surely he should have been hired by now!

Especially now.

He didn’t want to admit it to Dee, but he really didn’t like the idea of her going back to work. He knew it was a bit old-fashioned – after all, a lot of ladies had jobs now – but he really thought a woman’s most important job was to raise her children. Like his mom.

Mike’s eyes grew misty as he recalled his wonderful, loving mother. How she’d prepared well-balanced breakfasts for them. How she’d packed him and his sisters off to school with a nutritious lunch in hand. How she’d been waiting at the door to greet them after school, ushering them in to a snack of milk and cookies before helping them with their homework. How she’d helped him in the bath, making sure all his ‘nooks and crannies’ were properly clean. How she’d dried him thoroughly and the way she’d take her big, fluffy powder puff and powdered his little bum with sweet, silky, lilac scented powder. How she’d … well, he wanted his kids to have the same kind of wonderful childhood he had.

The mailman strode up the walk, whistling a cheerful tune.

Mike’s heart leaped in his throat. “Anything for me?” he squeaked hopefully.

“Sorry, Mike,” the mailman shook his head ruefully. “Maybe next time!”

Sour gall rose in Mike’s throat, but he hardly had time to notice it. A police officer was coming up the walk. Squinting, he realized it was Brad Luggsworth, his one-time tormentor, now a member of the RCMP.

“Hey Brad,” Mike said cautiously. Though it had been years since his days of being bullied, and even though Brad was now a police officer, the memories of daily wet-willies and swirlies still remained. “What’s up?”

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Mike,” Brad said with a poorly-suppressed grin. “I’m here because of your wife.”

“Dee?” Mike gasped. “Has she been in an accident or something? I didn’t want her to take that job on Yonge Street, the traffic’s so bad!”

“Actually, Mikey, we arrested her for solicitation. Prostitution,” he clarified, as he watched Mike try to sound out the unfamiliar word. “She was arrested at a whorehouse on Yonge, but we’ve been watching her for months. She’s at this for a while, mainly out of your house. She’s at the station. You’ll have to bail her out.”

Stunned, Mike stood motionless. “Okay,” he finally said. “Just give me a minute. I have to get my kids.” He turned to go into the house. Brad, with cat-like speed and reflexes reached over and yanked Mike’s tighty-whities up and over his waist of his pants in one smooth motion.

“Wedgy!” Brad cackled.

Milborough. The park.

April sat in a wooded copse with her best friend and frequent tormentor, Beckers. They’d skipped school and spent the day hidden by the trees, smoking nasty cigarettes, and crushing and snorting Ritalin.

“Beckers?” April whispered, lying on her back and looking at the sky.

“Yeah?” Beckers answered lazily.

“Did you ever wonder how birds fly? An’ if they’re not really flying at all but the sky is the ground and the ground is the sky and maybe we’re the ones flying and the birds are the ones walking?”

“Fuck, no,” Beckers groaned. “You are _such_ a foob!”

Michigan. Thirty-thousand feet in the air.

John and Theri sat next to each other, in comfy first-class seats, holding hands. They’d done it. Theri had emptied Anthony’s bank account. John, with Ted MacCauley’s help had managed to transfer all his assets to a bank in the Caymans. They were on their way to Jamaica. With their combined stash, they could live like royalty there. John glanced at his watch. Ten-forty-five PM. He closed his eyes and smiled. Any minute now, Ted would be arriving at his house to hand-deliver a letter to Elly.

Opening his eyes, he glanced at his new love. She looked so peaceful when she was asleep. He debated whether or not to tell her his surprise news now, or to wait until they got to Jamaica. She knew where they were going, but didn’t realize he’d picked Jamaica for a reason other than the lush beauty and cheap cost of living. He knew how much she wanted to know the identity of her birthparents. So, when he’d gone to Ted’s to discuss offshore bank account, he’d asked if Ted couldn’t also help identify Theri’s family. Ted, who had connections everywhere, made a few phone calls and located them. Marie and Jean-Paul Loutrec. A poor, but loving couple, forced to give up their eldest child at birth due to poverty, now working as missionaries in Jamaica.

He couldn’t wait to tell her the news.

Two rows behind him, Kortney Krelbutz snapped her fingers imperiously, summoning the flight attendant.

“Get me a vodka martini,” she snarled at the young man.

“Right away, miss,” he replied politely, turning to the drink cart where he mouthed some very bad words.

Kortney settled back in her seat. She’d done it. Not only had she made off with Elly’s blackmail money, but an extra fifty thousand dollars she’d managed to scam from forged cheques Elly didn’t know about. By the time anyone figured it out, she’d be installed in a new villa on a Jamaican hillside. She chuckled slightly to herself, thinking of that dumbshit Elly and her gullible nature. 

What a twat, Kortney thought sarcastically, accepting her drink from the flight attendant. Only Elly Patterson would think that ANYONE would care about the big terrible crime her stupid secret bastard had committed. Oh well. In about fifteen minutes there was going to be one pissed-off blackmailer and probably ten minutes after that, one very upset, over-caffeinated, doughy-assed, turnip-nosed suburban matron whose “big secret” was going to be exposed. Kortney’s one regret was that she couldn’t be there to see the blur and feel the breeze from all the arm-flapping that was sure to occur.

Milborough. The park.

Lawrence glanced around. The park was empty. Quietly, he made his way to the hollow tree. Reaching in, he felt around. There it was! A bag, heavier than he thought it would be. He hauled it out, tucked it under his arm, and ran to his car. Safely inside, he opened it to find …

A stupid fundraising can with some sick kid’s picture on it! Filled with pennies! And a note, taped to the front. Hands shaking, he unfolded it and read:

‘Dear Fucknuts – here’s your blackmail money, don’t spend it all in one place, hahahahahahahaha!’

Sick with disappointment, he sat still in his car for a moment. Then, a quiet, pure rage descended on him. Fine. If she wanted to play it that way, fine. If Nick couldn’t have his topiary garden, she couldn’t keep her secret. Reaching in back, he grabbed the flyers he’d prepared that afternoon, just in case …

Milborough. The Patterson living room.

Elly sat alone on the couch, sipping a cup of tea. Glancing at the clock, she was shocked to realize it was 11 PM! Where _had_ the time gone?

And where was everyone?

April and John should have been home hours ago. Elly shook her head, endeavoring to clear her mind. She’d lost all track of time, sitting there, pondering the events of the last few days, drinking endless cups of tea.

Her bladder was uncomfortably full.

Groaning, she shifted her bulk off the couch, and padded down the hall. Sitting on “the throne,” she reflected that at least her secret was safe, thanks to Kortney, who even now must be delivering the blackmail money. No one would know about her awful secret daughter now!

Just as she was washing her hands, she heard the front door open. Exiting, she walked down the hall to see if it were April or John. Elly gasped as she beheld her youngest child, slumped in the hall, bug-eyed and giggling.

“April!” Elly shrieked. “Where have you been young lady? And that skirt! I told you not to roll up the waistband or you’d look like a pole--” she broke off, as Mike charged through the door, stepping over the prone form of his sister, a catatonic child under each arm

“Mommy!’ Mike sobbed. “I’ve left Dee! She was working as … as … as a Bad Lady! And,” he cried, “Graydon Carter won’t talk to me!”

“There, there!” Elly soothed. “It’s okay honey. You and the children can stay here. I’ll tuck the kids in bed, and draw you a bath. When you’re done, mommy will get the powder puff and--” she stopped in mid-sentence as Ted MacCauley walked in, kicking April’s legs out of the way.

“Ted!” Elly gasped. “What are you doing here? Where’s John?”

Ted eyed her with distaste. I can’t believe I slept with that, he thought to himself. Extending an envelope towards her, he said, “Elly, I’ve come on an errand. John asked me to deliver this.”

“What the heck?” Elly muttered, ripping open the envelope. Hands trembling, she read aloud:

'Dear Hagatha – By the time you read this I’ll be halfway to a new life with my new girlfriend, Therese. Don’t bother trying to find me, not that you could get your head out of the refrigerator long enough to look. You can keep the car and the house but that’s all you’re getting, so you’d better wedge your fat ass through the door and start working if you want to keep yourself in muffins and lattes. Have a shitty life, tell the kids I hate them, John. PS, Ted told me you guys had an affair. I always though he had better taste, but thanks for the grounds for divorce!'

“Why, that … how dare he!” she spluttered. “How dare he say I have a fat ass?”

Her tirade was interrupted by yet another visitor.

Sergeant Paddy O’Gallagher walked in the door, stepping on April’s hand. “Top of the evenin’ to ye, Missus Patterson!” he bellowed. “I’m after tellin’ ye some bad news, ma’am. Yer father and stepmama died this afternoon. Apparently, yer father pushed his wife to her death from the balcony, and then committed suicide by jumping hisself. My sympathies ma’am, for yer terrible loss!”

“Oh, dear,” Elly sighed. “Well, at least they went together. That’s so romantic!”

At that moment, Connie came rushing in, stumbling over April in her haste. Breathlessly, she exclaimed, “Elly! Oh my God, Elly! Your secret … it’s out! Someone’s been throwing these flyers all over the neighborhood!” she gasped, waving a piece of paper.

Elly snatched it from her, and scanned it quickly. “Oh NO! Now everyone will know I had a bastard daughter fathered by Ted over there!” she screamed.

Fucking absinthe, Ted groaned to himself.

“What secret daughter, Mom?” Mike inquired, shifting an unconscious Merrie higher on his hip. “And when do I get my tubby?”

Weed and Carleen arrived just then, barely managing to miss April as they rushed through the door.

“Mike, man!” Weed gasped. “Lovey just told me about Dee being a who… Dee being arrested. How can we help?

“Yes, what can we do, Mike?” Carleen asked anxiously.

“YOU!” Elly thundered, wagging a finger at Carleen. “YOU DID THIS TO ME! YOU WRECKED MY LIFE!”

“What?” Carleen asked, confused. “What did I do?”

Elly shook her head, tears filling her eyes. She might as well confess. Everyone would know anyway. Honesty was the best policy, after all.

“I’m your birth mother,” she told the girl.

Carleen’s face lit up with pure joy, the quickly dimmed. “But … Elly, they told me my mother didn’t want to meet me! They said she was terrified of me, that she said I was an awful person! A disgrace! I don’t understand … I’ve never done anything wrong! I went to school, got a good job, pay all my bills and contribute to charities! Why do you hate me so much?” she sobbed brokenly. “You hardly even know me!”

Elly’s face was a rictus of rage and disgust. Drawing herself up, she marched straight over to her detested offspring and planted herself in front of her, glowering. Poking Carleen with a stubby finger, she hissed through clenched teeth, “I’ll tell you why. I _saw_ you, Carleen, I _saw_ what you did! Outside the Starbucks! On Main Street!”

“What?” Carleen shouted through her tears.

“You were drinking a tall. You finished, and threw it towards the trash container. But _it didn’t land in the trash container, Carleen!_” she shrieked. “It fell on the sidewalk! You saw it! Do you KNOW what you DID?”

With a final, soft but firm jab to Carleen’s sternum, Elly wailed,

“You … you _LITTERED!”_


	11. Epilogue

April and Elly Patterson continued to live together for several weeks after the Disintegration Incident,until Karen and Henry McGuire agreed to adopt April,with the assistance of Henry’s good friend Ted McCauley. April spent the remaining weeks of her sophomore year,the summer,and her remaining high school years after that with the McGuires,with three weeks each summer spent at Cruikshank Farm near Aberdeen,Saskatchewan. During this time she acquired a passion for veterinarianism,after an arrest by Brad Luggsworth in March convinced her and Becky to lay off of drugs. Becky was discovered by RRG,a local record label. She is now well known for winning the 4th season of Canadian Idol. April placed honorable mention in the same season and won the next season. The two are currently attending Nipissing University on a legacy scholarship Ted arranged for April. April is taking a distance learning program sponsored by the University of Guelph and Becky is studying Media Management. Becky is engaged to Gerald,and April to Duncan. A joint wedding is planned for next summer.

Elly and Ted got back together,but their relationship hasn’t been the best. Elly continues to flap and honk,but things got a little better on that front after Edgar died during April’s senior year. As per his will,Jim left Dixie to Phil and Georgia,who are taking good care of her. They had Jim and Iris cremated and their ashes scattered in Halifax harbor. As for Elly and Ted,they still live in the Pattermanse. They have two new dogs,twin corgis named Farley II and Cracker.

Elly continues to work at Lilliput’s,having hired Moira back after Kortney left again. Although her life hasn’t turned out the way she hoped it would,she still feels happy. They have three new employees. Janine,a nice lesbian college student from Michigan,helps arrange the displays. Willa,a girl two years below April in high school,keeps the cash register. Ron,the younger brother of Elizabeth’s high school acquaintance Duane,works most other jobs,including mailing package orders.

John and Theri currently live in Florida,having successfully invested their money in maglev development technology. They have twin girls:April and Victoria. They are living quite well,and hope to do so for many years yet.

Kortney too invested her money wisely. She currently lives in Galveston,engaged to local schoolteacher Robert Towers. They are currently the toast of the Galveston social circuit.

Elizabeth returned to Milborough,where she fell in love with Anthony,who was assuaging his mind after Thérèse’s sudden departure. She got a job at the Milborough primary school as an art teacher,and with Elly’s help secured Anthony a job as a teller at the local bank. They live in a small house in nearby Newmarket. Ardith,who retired from soliciting management after the Yonge bust,takes care of Françoise on most weekdays. Deanna,who works as a bartender,is all too happy to assist her. She was cleared of all charges after testifying that she was only in it for the extra money. She is engaged to Duncan’s older brother Charles.  
Liz and Anthony hope to get married in the near future:he formally proposed to her 5 months ago. She,of course,accepted.

Michael took his shocks pretty hard,continuing to room with Elly after April moved out. Along the way,he discovered Beatrice,and through commiserating about what life had handed them,they fell in love. They were married last Christmas in a quiet,private ceremony in Beatrice’s parents’ house,officiated by her uncle. Through pooling their money,they have managed to open a small eatery in Newmarket,catering primarily to the young-adult crowd. April occasionally helps there in summer. Mike still writes short stories on the side.   
Merrie and Robin are happy to have two new siblings. Alecia and Lucia Alfarero are pretty good company,and their age to boot.

Brad Luggsworth was promoted to a desk job in Sarnia. Paddy O’Gallagher replaced him on the Milborough beat. He is dating Moira.

In the end,Lovey was not charged with anything regarding Dee’s solicitations. She evicted the Kelpfroths a month later,after Brad returned to arrest Melville on racketeering charges. She turned her place into a boarding house and inn:she and Morrie make comfortable money. Winnie moved in with relatives in Fredericton.

Jeremy Jones was found dead a few weeks ago in a Westdale gutter,a bottle of vintage 1995 Grey Goose in his hand. Practically nobody misses him.

Weed and Carleen are engaged,to be married in November. Elly has coffee with Carleen every other Thursday. She will be the maid of honor at their wedding.


End file.
